


come hurry and resurrect me

by eternalheatstroke



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 07, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 06:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalheatstroke/pseuds/eternalheatstroke
Summary: “I — just. The one thing I never wanted to be was powerless.” Even as a whisper, his voice cracks.Shiro’s on edge. Keith tries to help. Some things take time to mend.





	come hurry and resurrect me

**Author's Note:**

> This is all a big spiral from one line of dialogue I heard on Madam Secretary... I don't even know.  
> Title from "Resurrection" by the Temper Trap

“Well Captain, do you yield?” The _again_ goes left unsaid.

Keith’s voice drips smugness as it crackles through the comms, punctuated by the sounds of victory resounding from the other Paladins. Shiro knows it’s meant teasingly — these joint Voltron-Atlas exercises are supposed to strengthen their bonds and let Shiro fine-tune his handling of the massive ship — but he can’t help the feeling of embarrassment and frustration that settles like a knot in his stomach.

He’s normally not such a sore loser. Voltron wins most days anyway; the robot is exceedingly more manageable in its size and agility. But he’s normally also not in such a sour mood to begin with.

Covering his disappointment, he opens his communications channel and responds. “Well done, team. Maybe we should call it a day.”

It’s been several months since Sendak’s defeat, and the Earth has readily fallen into its new role as the hub for Coalition forces. There is plenty of preparation and training to be done, but for Shiro this means an unexpected amount of down time after meetings and drills are over for the day, something he and the Paladins never had the luxury of in space. He relished it, at first. Finally, he had time to spare for himself, for the other Paladins and all of the people he never thought he’d see again here on Earth. The flipside, however, is that it leaves too much room for thinking, too much room for those memories that he’s tried so hard to bury and lock away to resurface. They’ve been clawing their way up a lot recently.

He gets an affirmative from Keith, but Lance continues to needle. “Aw, tired already, Shiro? Guess it’d just be us kicking your butt again anyway, but-”

“ _Lance, enough._ ”

Shiro regrets the venom with which he cuts him off. It’s not Lance’s intent to hurt, but today it hits too close to the truth. The Paladin mumbles out a quick apology, and the comms channel shuts off as the Lions separate and make their way back to the Atlas’s hangar.

Steadying himself with his hands planted against the control panel, Shiro takes a deep breath. His crew is staring at him worriedly, he knows without looking up to meet their prying gazes. He dismisses them without further explanation, waiting till they’ve all left the bridge before he lets his posture sag. _Get it together._

His eyes are tired and heavy from lack of sleep, and he shuts them long enough to feel the comforting pull of unconsciousness before forcing them open again. Sleep sounds like a good idea until he’s waking up in a panic, gasping for breath and flailing against invisible enemies. That’s been Shiro’s pattern. It’s a new development since they arrived from space to Earth. It’s not the dreams generally — he’s dealt with them for years — but _these_ dreams in particular.

The memories aren’t new. Rationally, he knows half of the visions he sees in these dreams shouldn’t affect him anymore. Sendak and Zarkon are dead. He escaped the gladiator arena. These are all fears that haunted him back when the wounds were fresh and he’d been thrust into a position of leadership he didn’t feel ready for. They shouldn’t be an issue for him now, entirely free from Haggar’s hold over him and the commander of the most powerful weapon in the universe. Right?

Shiro knows he has the support system to catch him if he needs it. Keith’s made that clear enough the few times Shiro’s accidentally woken him up during one of his nightmares in the past. But this shouldn’t be an issue. Shiro doesn’t need help handling this, he chides himself. If he can just get one decent night’s sleep….

The electronic hiss of the door to the bridge pulls him out of his thoughts and he turns to see Keith enter, Kosmo trotting at his side.

“You didn’t come to meet us and debrief?” It’s more of a statement than a question, but Shiro can tell Keith wants to know why. They’re too good at reading each other.

“Sorry, just frustrated.” Shiro forces himself to relax, reaching a hand out to intertwine with Keith’s. “I can’t seem to get the hang of this.” He gestures vaguely to their surroundings, and Keith offers a sympathetic smile.

“That’s what the practice is for.”

He’s steadied in Keith’s presence, and forces out a sigh, more of the tension leaving Shiro’s shoulders. Keith tugs him closer and pulls him down for a kiss. It’s chaste, polite even, just a light brush of their lips. Their relationship is no secret here or anywhere else, but they’re not about to face the consequences of Iverson catching them committing the crime of PDA in the workplace.

Shiro would much rather melt into the curves of Keith’s body right now than uphold any decorum, feel the lines of his muscles without their uniforms in between. It’s the easiest way to forget the responsibilities and fears that plague him, and he knows it’s probably not the _best_ coping mechanism — but it works, usually.

Keith breaks the kiss sooner than Shiro would like, and dips his forehead till it’s planted against Shiro’s chest. He sighs, “It’s not just the Atlas, is it?” When Shiro doesn’t respond he presses on. “I know you haven’t been sleeping.” Shiro tries to protest, but Keith cuts him off. “ _And,_ I know it’s always tempting to yell at Lance, but he didn’t mean to upset you.”

Shaking his head, Shiro can’t stop the rueful smile that tugs at his lips. “When did you start sticking up for Lance?”

Keith purses his lips in distaste. “Think of it more as… me knowing what to say to get you to tell me what’s wrong.” He steps away from Shiro to look at him levelly and quirks an eyebrow. “Lance deserved it.”

“Keith…” Shiro hesitates. It would be all too easy to lay out the troubles that have followed Shiro around since they returned. Since _Shiro_ returned. Most, Keith is well aware of and he shares many too, but some, the small voice in the back of Shiro’s head reminds him, are things that have already been opened and closed. These thoughts shouldn’t be bothering him anymore, and he shouldn’t need to rehash them with Keith _again._ He shouldn’t waste Keith’s time; it’s too much to ask. “Really, I’m just frustrated at myself. And tired. I’ll take it easy today and then I’ll be ready to drill again tomorrow.” Shiro sends up silent thanks that this was his last scheduled event for the day.

He’s scrutinized a beat longer before Keith relents, tugging him off the bridge and toward the lounge with a promise of snacks and a round of Monsters and Mana with the team to relax.

Shiro tries to cast off the cloud that’s settled over him. He apologizes to Lance — before asking Lance to stop apologizing to him — and settles in to listen to Coran narrate the game in front of them. His heart isn’t in it though, and that just frustrates him more. Everything in his life is good, perfect even. He’s surrounded by friends, he has purpose, he’s loved. He’s _alive._ Yet, his past clings to him like a shroud. It’s a shroud that’s all too easy to forget in the thick of battle and fighting for the fate of the universe, but in this lull it wraps around his throat and threatens to strangle him, tightening, tightening —

He stands so abruptly Pidge jumps in surprise next to him, her game piece clattering as she knocks it over.

“Whoa, are you okay, man?” Hunk asks tentatively from across the table when no one else makes a move.

“Shiro—” Keith reaches out and Shiro flinches when his hand brushes his arm. Keith retracts it like he’s been shocked.

“I… I think I need some time alone.” Shakily, Shiro pulls himself over the back of the lounge’s sunken couches. He can feel the eyes of the Paladins on his back as he leaves, can only imagine what they think of him right now, but his fresh shame is outweighed by the tightness of his chest as he struggles to calm his breathing. He leans against the wall just outside the door, the hallway illuminating a light blue when it senses his presence. The metal is cool against his back, and it steadies him enough to make it the rest of the way to his and Keith’s room without trouble.

He eyes their bed, the temptation to burrow under the covers and let sleep claim him and take away these feelings strong. Instead, he walks to the bathroom, turning the faucet on as cold as it can go before splashing the water across his face. The jolt of cold wakes him up some, but doesn’t do what he’d hoped to clear his head.

Unsettled and fidgety, Shiro runs a nervous hand through his hair and forces out another deep breath. His face is sickly pale in the mirror, and his grimace doesn’t help. _Everything is fine. It’s fine._ Shiro repeats this to himself a few times before anxiety rises again. He shouldn’t let his thoughts stray here, these dark corners of his mind. Yet here he is.

Returning to the bedroom, he opts for the chair in front of his desk instead of the bed, not trusting himself to stay awake any other way. At least he can stay rational while he’s conscious. In dreams he’s at the mercy of his memories.

Shiro sits facing the stack of paperwork still on his desk, staring blankly at it. He focuses on relaxing his muscles, focuses on breathing evenly, tries to clear his mind. He’s never been the best at meditating — when he thinks too hard about not thinking he just ends up thinking more. Body and mind already physically exhausted from lack of sleep and powering the Atlas though, he’s relieved to find himself spacing out, absently running his eyes across a few lines of text at the bottom of a report over and over again without absorbing any of the information. He actually feels calm. Several minutes pass like that, and Shiro doesn’t fight this time when he feels himself drifting off. The relaxation pulls him down, and he finally succumbs to sleep.

Rest isn’t an escape, Shiro knows. His resistance was simply holding off the inevitable.

 _It’s dark._ It’s dark and bone-chillingly cold, but Shiro is fevered. He wraps his arms around himself for warmth and starts when he sees the unfamiliar gray metal of his Galra prosthetic, glinting in the faint light from between the cell bars. The purple rags of his tunic are muted, everything around him cast in that flat and ominous light of the Galra prison.

Pulling his knees to his chest, Shiro wedges into the corner of his small cell, no comfort to be found in the smooth metal walls. His arm aches badly, his body still not accepting the alien hardware.

Footsteps echo as someone approaches from down the corridor. Shiro whimpers involuntarily. “ _No.”_ He doesn’t have a fight scheduled today, he knows, because the witch made it clear he shouldn’t fight until they know the arm is viable.

Until they know he won’t die from the shock.

Two guards appear in front of his cell, disarming the door and then moving toward him, practiced and methodical. Shiro shrinks back, willing himself to disappear into the wall behind him, but the guards grab him roughly, wrenching his arm and Shiro can’t stop the scream of pain that’s escapes. They just laugh.

“Champion. High Priestess Haggar needs to make some adjustments to your arm. Behave and it will be mostly painless.”

They drag him from the cell. Shiro usually isn’t one to fight, resigned to his fate in the arena and knowing from experience it will only worsen his treatment to resist, but the witch is another story. His hands scrape fruitlessly at the flat walls as he’s pulled back to her lab. His right shoulder burns, phantom pain vying with the sudden exertion of his attempts to break free. _But where would I go?_

With a choked gasp, Shiro drops his arms and lets himself be pulled away. This is how he’ll spend the remainder of what little life he has, resigned to the torture of experimentation. He has no recourse here, nothing he does adds up to anything except the entertainment and whim of his captors. He’ll kill for them, and keep killing for them long after he’s stripped of his humanity, more metal than flesh.

One of the Galra scans his hand on for the door to the lab and it slides open, dousing Shiro in bright, sterile light. A menacing laugh smothers his senses, phantom-yellow eyes flashing in front of him, pain shoots through his shoulder and — suddenly the scene before him shifts.

Now, he stares down at Keith, face pained and panicked, yellow eyes blazing as Shiro brings the plasma blade of his arm closer and closer. Shiro screams on the inside, every rational brain cell trying to push away and let Keith go, but his body won’t react, powered by a force beyond Shiro’s control.

“Shiro…!”

Shiro grits his teeth, yell tearing out of him mirroring Keith’s shout. He feels a rip through his arm, a burning that envelopes his shoulder. Wires dangle uselessly from the socket of what’s left.

“Keith.”

Keith shouts his name again.

Shiro is ripped out of the nightmare, his eyes flying open in terror. Disoriented, he shoves back on the desk too hard and it nearly topples his chair backward, but a firm weight stops it.

“Shiro! Takashi, you’re okay. You’re safe.” Keith’s voice cuts through the adrenaline and shock clouding his hearing and vision, but Shiro still turns to him defensively, new prosthetic poised to strike. “Shiro, breathe.” In front of him, Keith mimes a few deep breaths in and out, motioning with his hands. He pretends to ignore Shiro’s hand, the threat of him lashing out in fear.

Desperate, Shiro stares at the sweep of Keith’s hands and attempts to sync his breathing. They both stand in silence until Shiro’s breath calms a bit and his eyes flick up to Keith’s face. He must look like shit, given the way Keith is staring at him, eyebrows bunched together and mouth a tight line. He lets out another shaky breath.

“Sorry.” It rings hollow in the distance between them.

Keith frowns. “I didn’t know they were still this bad, Shiro. I just came from the lounge and found you…” He trails off, omitting what was probably an unsettling sight — Shiro hunched over the desk, writhing in fear and pain, crying out. Taking a step closer, Keith pries, “Is this why you haven’t been sleeping?”

Shiro shrugs a shoulder noncommittally, too shocked to speak. A glance at the clock tells him it’s been several hours since he fell asleep, but it doesn’t feel like he got any rest. His entire body thrums with nerves, wound tight and ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

“If you want to talk about it…” Keith lets the offer hang for a moment before adding, “It’s not your fault.”

He’s talking about their fight. Of course. That’s what would make sense for Shiro to dream about anyway, still new and raw in comparison to the days after the Kerberos mission.

A cloud of self-loathing and confusion rises up in him and threatens to smother him again. “It’s not just about _that._ ” He snaps before he can help himself. This is ridiculous. He _should_ be dreaming about that still, about his time trapped in the Black Lion, _dead._ But he’s stupidly reliving trauma that is long over too.

Keith’s eyes widen at his outburst, but he remains silent. He’s treading carefully. Slowly, he reaches out a hand to cup Shiro’s face, drawing his gaze to meet Keith’s. “Shiro, it’s okay. How can I help?”

Emotion isn’t coming easily to Shiro, at least not in the form of words. He shutters himself to Keith, closing off in favor of stewing in the roiling feelings of his mind. _I can handle this myself_. He isn’t helpless, not broken.

Still, meeting no outward resistance, Keith moves closer and wraps his arms around Shiro. The sudden warmth of his body saps Shiro of fight and he lets himself lean into the touch. Keith runs a hand through his hair in reassuring strokes, silent and comforting.

Shiro’s voice cracks when he regains it, “Please, just let me touch you.”

Keith pulls back, and panic flares in Shiro again before Keith tugs on his arm and backs toward the bed. Shiro follows, letting Keith cradle him and pull a blanket over them both. Here, the darkness of the Atlas’s night-cycle isn’t so oppressive anymore.

Keith doesn’t loosen his hold on Shiro, murmuring things too soft for Shiro to hear but soothing nonetheless. Shiro still sees the nightmare flash behind his eyelids, yellow eyes and screeching laugh surging toward him like a wave, his actions beyond his control. He can’t quiet his mind. There’s too much energy in him with nowhere to go.

He knows for a fact he won’t sleep again tonight. Shiro itches to react, to fight against these demons that swallow him up, regain some semblance of normalcy.

Looking up from his place against Keith’s chest, he doesn’t recognize his own voice when he speaks, brimming with want and desperation. It sounds too much like a voice plucked from his dream. “ _Keith_.”

Shiro barely gives him time look down at him before he’s yanking Keith into a kiss. It’s hard, messy, and Keith makes a sound of surprise before returning it. They grab each other tighter, deepening the kiss as Keith’s mouth opens up to Shiro’s insistent prodding. The nervous energy in Shiro boils and changes to hunger, fingertips outlining the planes of Keith’s shoulder blades through his under suit. Keith gasps as Shiro releases the clasp at the back and slides his prosthetic under the hem and against skin, cool in contrast to his body heat.

Yanking it down, Shiro moves away long enough to pull the skin-tight fabric off before returning. With renewed purpose, he moves his hands across Keith’s abdomen, inching lower. Keith finds purchase on Shiro’s suit and follows, undoing the back and letting it drop off his shoulders. Their teeth clack in their frenzied attempts to keep their mouths joined.

Shiro’s desperate, and Keith is a willing outlet for the fear he’s been bottling up inside. He’ll drown in this, this feel of sweat-slicked bodies and overwhelming need, until he forgets what it was that rattled him. If he can just lose himself in the man he loves — who loves _him_.

Keith suppresses a groan when Shiro squeezes his ass, pulling Keith’s legs around his waist. Shiro flips them from their sides so he’s looming over Keith, his possessiveness only growing now that he’s able to admire Keith laid out beneath him. Hooded eyes and hair flattened against the pillow, even in the dark Keith looks powerful, breathtaking, the exact opposite of Shiro’s worst nightmares.

Shiro needs more.

He flattens their bodies against each other, blissful friction like a spark between them. Keith gasps at the sudden pleasure, but a growl rumbles out of Shiro.

“Shiro —” Keith’s voice is raspy, and Shiro cuts him off with a bruising kiss before he can finish the thought. He can’t think, not right now. He needs to forget. Shiro bites down on Keith’s bottom lip and uses his right arm to push Keith’s leg up flush with his chest, holding him there and giving Shiro easy access. Like this, Keith is vulnerable, at his mercy. Heat pools in Shiro’s cock at the vision in front of him. Keith is all his for the taking.

Keith’s quiet now, eyes unreadable, and when Shiro fishes the bottle of lube from underneath the far pillow he only lets out a whimper. Slicking his fingers, Shiro doesn’t waste time before inserting his first finger. It’s tight at this angle, and Keith clenches down on instinct when Shiro doesn’t give him time to adjust before moving rapidly.

“Shiro, fuck…” Keith bites back whatever else he’s about to say as Shiro adds a second finger, his words turning into a moan instead. Shiro leans down, pressing firm kisses along the line of Keith’s jaw and sucking the skin of his neck. Distantly, he knows it’ll bruise, and it’s up too high to hide with their uniforms, but he’s too lost in this moment to care. He moves his hand faster, scissoring and widening and twisting. Keith shouts when Shiro hits his prostate on one rough thrust, his body shaking.

He removes his fingers without pretense, drawing another sharp breath from Keith. Sitting back, Shiro lines himself up, taking in Keith’s splayed form with dark, blown pupils.

Keith takes a second to register what Shiro’s doing, but then his face contorts from one of want to confusion, then worry. He sits up on his elbows, frowning.

“Shiro, hey, slow down. I’m not ready.”

Shiro plants his free hand on Keith’s chest, shoving him back to the bed. “You’ll be fine.” A desire to possess, to own, has Shiro seeing red as he holds Keith down. His hands grip Keith’s torso with crushing pressure.

Keith squeaks in surprise when Shiro doesn’t let up, and the sound morphs into a plea. “Shiro. You’re not okay. We should stop.” When Shiro doesn’t respond, Keith moves instead. He wraps his legs around Shiro, hands coming up to grab his shoulders and flipping him down to the bed.

Shiro’s head hits the headboard with a loud crack, and the fuzziness is replaced with throbbing pain. Clutching at his head in shock, Shiro blinks to clear his sight. Keith straddles his waist, mouth and jaw set but eyes betraying concern.

The last few minutes slam into Shiro like a freight train. “Keith… oh, shit.”

Recognizing his clarity, Keith relaxes a bit. He slides off Shiro to sit next to him criss-cross, hand lightly grasping Shiro’s. “I’m okay, Shiro.” He doesn’t pause to add, as blunt as ever, “But I need you to tell me what’s wrong because this obviously wasn’t helping.” Keith gestures vaguely, at a loss.

Shame and horror threaten to close Shiro off again, but he gives in to the tears that slide down his face instead. He almost hurt Keith — he wanted to forget, and he’d lost himself instead. He grits his teeth through a sob and tries to move away, but Keith’s grip tightens, holding him in place.

“You have to talk to me, Shiro. I want to help you.” Keith’s voice is calm, but the tremor in his hand gives him away. Shiro manages to raise his eyes to meet Keith’s, and Keith seems to come to a decision based on what he sees there. He slides of the bed and grabs both of Shiro’s hands. “C’mon. Let’s calm down.”

Shiro decides not to fight it, the energy from moments before replaced with sapping lethargy. Keith gives him a small smile when he does as asked before leading him into the bathroom. He leaves Shiro propped against the counter while he turns on the shower, checking the water temperature methodically.

Watching him absently, Shiro still reels. Both he and Keith have had nights where they’ve just needed to be lost in one another, caught up in the press of skin and haze of pleasure, but it had never been like that. The violence Shiro had felt — had _reveled_ in — disgusts him, but the promise of control and domination had stolen his sanity. Maybe the monster of his past really does still cling to him.

Keith seems satisfied with the temperature, and returns to Shiro. He looks uncertain, his legs shaky as they support his weight. It hurts Shiro deep in his heart to know he made Keith feel vulnerable, yet Keith runs a soothing hand up Shiro’s arm and shoulder, cradling his neck and jaw so tenderly. He only touches for a few seconds before tugging Shiro into the shower behind him.

Neither of them bother standing under the spray, instead sitting on the hard tiles as steam fills the room. Shiro presses himself into a corner, hesitant to touch Keith and risk hurting him again, but Keith doesn’t let him pull away. He settles down right next to Shiro, their thighs flush, and swings and arm around Shiro’s waist till he leans against Keith’s shoulder. Through his tears, Shiro has the decency to appreciate Keith’s dedication. Now he’s the one coaching Shiro through emotions he has yet to master.

They sit in silence, the hiss of water the only sound save for the perpetual hum of the Atlas around them. Keith is waiting for Shiro to gather the strength he needs to talk, he knows, and Keith’s comforting weight against him eventually gives Shiro the courage to put to words his tangled mess of memories and nightmares.

Shiro takes a deep, centering breath and stares hard at his feet, sticking out in front of him beneath the shower. “I keep seeing those cells. Haggar’s lab.”

Keith doesn’t speak, giving Shiro the chance to continue. “They keep dragging me away so she can experiment on me…” He clenches his prosthetic fist unconsciously. “I can’t stop them. I can’t stop _myself._ I try and try, but nothing I do matters, and I thought I’d put this behind me — I thought I could handle this myself, but now I’ve just made things worse—”

He’s silenced by the sobs wracking his body, and Keith pulls him closer, shifting till both arms can wrap around Shiro. Keith holds him, rocking them back and forth slightly. Shiro can barely suck in air to breathe, all of the pent-up pain and fear pressing on his chest like a dead weight.

“I’ve got you. I won’t lose you again.” Keith whispers it against the top of Shiro’s head, cheek buried in his damp hair.

Shiro wants nothing more than to believe. He trusts Keith with his life and more, and he knows Shiro’s pain is Keith’s too. But he’s been so battered in this life, the scars littering his body a testament to memories this body didn’t even actually experience — but his soul remembers. Shiro’s been lost so many times, who’s to say it won’t happen again, even with Keith?

“Haggar is still out there.” Shiro’s voice is small, trying his best to contain the terror behind the words. He’s never been one to hide his emotions, especially from someone he loves, but in the face of a personal enemy and with his new position as Captain of the Atlas, Shiro doesn’t want anyone to think he’s anything but capable. But here he is cracking under the pressure.

Keith tenses against him. “When she comes to us, we’ll be ready. She’ll pay for what she did to you, Shiro. For what she did to all of us.” Shiro takes some solace in the sentiment, and grunts in agreement, but the witch’s damage has already been done.

“I — just. The one thing I never wanted to be was powerless.” Even as a whisper, his voice cracks.

Leaning more of his weight onto Keith, Shiro cradles his right arm. It doesn’t look anything like the dark metal of the Galra prosthetic, and it was designed by friends who had his best interest at heart. It’s still a marker of what’s been taken from him, what he couldn’t prevent.

Keith gives Shiro a small squeeze with his arms. “We all have things out of our control sometimes.” He pauses, adjusting his hold on Shiro to turn them toward each other. “But you’re not who you were back then, Shiro. Look at everything you’ve accomplished.”

Shiro traces the seams of metal on his arm in lieu of an answer. He knows Keith is right, but that doesn’t stop his misgivings.

As if reading his mind, Keith adds, “And when you can’t handle it by yourself, that’s why you have people to fall back on.”

Shiro lets go of his arm finally to wipe away some of the tears streaking his face despite the steam of the shower. He cherishes the feeling of fondness that blooms in his chest. “When did you get so good at this?”

Keith’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Someone told me I’d make a good leader one day. I’ve been working on it.” He stands and holds out a hand for Shiro, hefting him up so they can both stand under the water.

They let it cascade over them, and the silence isn’t so heavy anymore. Shiro isn’t magically cured like he wishes he could be and these are demons that will keep creeping up on him in the shadows, but for now he doesn’t feel quite so broken.

Keith massages the Garrison-issued shampoo into Shiro’s scalp and then Shiro returns the favor. Slowly, he calms down, grounding himself in the moment. He focuses on the feel of Keith’s hair under his hands, the smell of the soap, the closeness between them. Keith rinses the soap from Shiro’s hair and then down his body, light kisses following the path of clean water across his collar bones. Once they’re both rinsed and Keith is satisfied that Shiro has towelled off enough, they climb back into bed. Shiro can’t see the clock from where he lies, Keith curled around him, but he guesses it’s well into the early hours of the morning now.

He still can’t sleep, though his whole body craves it. This time, it’s not entirely from fear of what sleep holds, but a stronger emotion for the man lying next to him. Shiro turns in Keith’s arms to face him. Keith is still awake too, watching with soft eyes.

Shiro brushes his left hand along Keith’s cheek, pouring all the love and adoration he feels into the motion. “Thank you, Keith. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” It comes out as less than a whisper, barely audible.

“I’ll always be here with you, Shiro.”

This time, their kiss is slow, their lips pressing hard but no longer urgent. Shiro shivers at the lines of heat Keith’s hands leave behind as they trace out the scars on his back. He runs his fingers through Keith’s drying hair, other hand still cupping his face. They simply bask in each other for a long while, re-orienting themselves to every curve and dip of each other’s body. This overwhelming sense of place finally casts off the last remnants of Shiro’s nightmares. Here in Keith’s arms he’s safe and loved — he should only make sure Keith feels the same.

Shiro’s breath ghosts across Keith’s ear. “Let me make it up to you?”

Keith nods, smile cracking his mouth and crinkling his eyes. Shiro kisses it off him, smiling into it himself.

He moves his touch down Keith’s neck and across his chest, hands holding their bodies close. Keith gives small hums of approval as Shiro pays special attention to his chest, rolling the nubs of his nipples under his tongue till they’re hard.

Keith’s hand fists in Shiro’s hair tight enough to pull and he pairs it with a thrust of his hips, dick rutting against Shiro’s taut stomach. Groaning, Shiro bites down on Keith’s chest to muffle the sound and Keith pulls his hair again.

“Please.”

Shiro isn’t sure which of them says it, the heavy fog of passion pressing down on his senses. He moves his hand down from Keith’s back, pausing just long enough to let Keith coat his fingers in lube. Shiro hikes Keith’s thigh up over his hip before slowly circling Keith’s entrance.

Keith shivers involuntarily at the touch and Shiro carefully eases his finger past the tight muscle. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Taking a deep breath, Keith leans his head down onto Shiro’s, pressing a firm kiss to the crown. “I know.”

Keith’s already more than stretched for one finger, but Shiro still takes his time, moving his hand in deep and steady strokes until he adds a second. Keith’s hips stutter at the new stretch and he moans. Shiro rumbles in approval, resisting the heaviness of his cock, untouched between them save for the minute friction of their bodies.

Panting and grinding his hips down on Shiro’s fingers Keith can’t swallow his noises anymore. “Shiro, I need more. Please.”

Acquiescing, Shiro adds a third finger. It’s a tough angle, but he manages to stroke just right to have Keith melting against him. Like this, Keith is fire, and it’s all Shiro’s doing. It’s a power he can take some pride in.

Shiro mouths back up Keith’s throat as he withdraws his fingers, distracting him from the discomfort. When he reaches the bottom of his ear he asks, “What else do you want, baby?”

Keith begs, sending a shiver reverberating through Shiro. “I need you — fuck me.” Yanking Shiro across him with the leg still curled around Shiro’s waist, Keith settles underneath him, staring at him with shining eyes. Without prompting, Keith hooks the same leg over Shiro’s shoulder, leaving himself open and on display.

Shiro forgets to breathe. There’s a playful quirk to Keith’s mouth now, no longer quite so reverent and careful. Shiro is almost too woozy to hold himself up on his forearms, the sight underneath him his whole world.

“You’re so beautiful.” Sitting back, Shiro takes Keith’s leg draped over his shoulder with him. Running his prosthetic along the firm, stretched muscle, he drinks in the sight of Keith admiring Shiro right back.

He knows Keith’s letting him set the pace here. Judging from the glint to his eyes, if Keith had his way Shiro would already be pressing him into the mattress, but Keith is considerate like that. He won’t hurry when Shiro needs the time to steady himself.

The thought that Shiro hadn’t offered the same understanding earlier digs at him again, but it’s banished when Keith loses his patience. He arches his back in a languid stretch, drawing Shiro’s attention back to him with a pointed smirk. “Don’t space out on me, Shiro.”

Shiro leans back in, pushing Keith’s leg to his chest with one hand, the other planted next to Keith’s face. This close, Shiro’s seriousness causes Keith’s grin to falter. “Shiro…?”

“I love you, Keith.” He kisses the corner of Keith’s mouth when it rises back into a smile.

“I love you too, Takashi.”

Shiro lets go of Keith’s leg, shifting just enough to line his dick up with Keith’s entrance. His eyes lock with Keith’s as he slides home.

“F- fuck.” Keith shuts his eyes tightly, mouth opening in a silent groan when the sensation becomes overwhelming. Shiro gives him a moment, running a soothing hand up and down his side. It doesn’t take long for Keith to squirm in impatience. “Shiro, move.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Shiro keeps a steady pace, thrusting in shallowly to begin and then deeper as Keith rocks his hips up to meet him. Their lips lock in a messy kiss, tongues wrapping around each other and spit slicking their chins. Each movement is punctuated by Keith’s hiccups of breath, fucked-out sounds that leave Shiro seeing stars.

Keith breaks their kiss and digs his head back into the pillow, fingers raking through Shiro’s bangs and pulling. He’s getting desperate, eyes clenched shut and his dick swollen and twitching against his stomach. On the next roll of his hips Shiro takes Keith’s length in hand, pumping in time with his own movements.

“God, _yes_ .” Dragging out the S _,_ Keith’s hands land on Shiro’s hips, fingertips clenching into the muscle and urging him on.

Instead of listening to Keith, Shiro slows, the smooth drag in and out a burn of pure bliss. It’s driving Keith crazy, and he whines in protest. Shiro doesn’t pick up the pace right away, savoring the sensation before removing his hand from Keith’s dick with one last slide of his thumb over the head.

He follows up the lazy slide by slamming in, hard and without pretense. The slap of skin and the sound of their labored breathing is all he hears. Heat builds and settles low in his stomach, but he ignores it until Keith’s breathing hitches and he comes with a cry across his stomach. Shiro follows quickly behind, hips stuttering to a standstill.

They’re both a mess. Sweat drips down Shiro’s back and Keith looks like he sprinted a mile, but when their eyes meet there’s no exhaustion, just satisfaction and desire.

Gently, Shiro slips out and barely manages to not crush Keith under his weight as his arms give out. He nestles along Keith’s side, sweat sticking their skin together much to Keith’s protest.

“Ugh, we’re gonna have to shower again.” Keith gives him the stink eye before rolling over to face him anyway. His features soften and he rubs his hand up and down Shiro’s bicep. “Did that help?”

Shiro can’t help the blush that creeps across his face. He snuggles in closer to Keith until he can bury his face in the crook of his neck and lets out a long sigh, so long that Keith tugs him in closer with a laugh.

This is exactly where he needs to be right now. He’s content and happy, despite the tiredness that clings to the edges of his mind. For once he’s present. Shiro plants a kiss on Keith’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to convey all of the emotion he feels into it. That’s the best he can do in terms of putting his ocean of feeling into something tangible now. Words won’t cut it, but this does.

Keith runs his hands up Shiro’s back and neck, skimming through the cropped length of his hair in slow scratches. Shiro returns the gesture, smoothing back Keith’s hair and moving back to see his face. He wraps his arms around him and gives him a small smile that widens when Keith can’t stifle a yawn.

Propping himself up just enough to see the clock, Shiro sighs. “Get some sleep, Keith. You can shower in the morning.”

“It’s _already_ morning.” Keith jokes and is about to chide Shiro for the same thing, but thinks better of it. Instead he settles on, “Try to rest, Shiro.”

Shiro presses a kiss to his forehead and they settle down, blankets haphazardly thrown across them and limbs entangled. It doesn’t take long for Keith to drift off, breath evening out and stress falling from his face. Shiro would be envious, but he knows Keith suffers his own dreams. There are some things you just can’t shake off no matter how hard you fight.

Here and now though, Shiro will be here for him, watching every rise and fall of his chest and waiting for the alarm clock. He’s not envious because Keith has done the same for him.

So he lies there till morning, thinking of how far he’s come and how much further they both still have to go.  


**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I swear I'm done with the angst. Maybe.  
>   
> [tumblr](http://eternal-heatstroke.tumblr.com/)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/eternalheatstrk)


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